Abbey Road
by Blondie99
Summary: She's quivering in the corner, her face hidden in bruised knees. Her jeans, torn up and hanging off of one ankle, the button missing and splashes of red becoming crusty from exposure. Her shirt is rucked up, skin bruised where it shouldn't be, the dark shapes almost resembling long fingers. No. God please, not her. She's just a kid. (Warnings: Rape, rape recovery, female!Scott)


**AN: **This is probably the darkest piece of work I've ever attempted. It does contain dark and sensitive content, so please head the warnings given. If you guys do like this though, please leave a review, because it would be lovely. Thanks a bunch babes, xoxox.

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Derek winces as Chris digs out the last of glass from his back. He feels the gashes stitch themselves back together, though slowly, with the blood drying and becoming itchy and cracked on his skin.

Derek could lie to himself, say he covered Chris in some semblance of holding it over Argent that a hunter needed a werewolf's help. In actuality, it was all instinct; protect a human from danger. He didn't see Chris in that moment as his kind's natural enemy; he was his ally and someone who wouldn't heal as well as he could from glass shards coming at him at an explosion's rate of blast. The cuts are swabbed over with alcohol in a blink, Chris ignoring Derek's rumbling snarl at the harsh sting.

"It doesn't need stitches, but don't stress the skin or the wounds will tear again." Chris tells him mechanically.

Derek nods sharply, pulling a borrowed shirt gently over his head. He decides on just carrying his jacket, rather than slipping on the torn up leather. He pivots to face Chris, as the older man cleans off the blood and glass shards from his dining room table. Chris had drug a reluctant Derek back to his apartment, ignoring the werewolf's protest of him "being able to heal anyway" and "not needing any help". Chris, in no other word, is grateful to the werewolf; maybe he wouldn't have died from the blast, but without Derek's hearing and his sudden action, Chris wasn't so sure his iron clad will to live would hold up against a bomb. And the thought of his daughter in a world without a mother _and _a father, was something he could barely stomach the thought of.

"Derek," Chris calls softly, well as softly as a hardened man whose been through and seen too much, ever could. The werewolf looks at him, with a thick raised eyebrow in question to his name being called. The hunter holds his hand out hesitantly to the former Alpha. Derek's eyebrow raising even further at the gesture, if that was even possible. He doesn't question it thankfully, grasping the other man's hand and shaking it forcefully. Chris offers an upturned corner of his mouth, and Derek returns it with a firm nod.

Derek leaves, walking brusquely but carefully to the elevator. Just as Derek clicks the lobby button, his cell gives a shrill ring. Noticing the unknown number, Derek almost decides to ignore the call but thinks twice. It could be Cora calling from wherever she decided to go after moving on from South America. She told him she wanted to explore the world as much as she could, now with a sense of peace at the knowledge that she had at least a brother to return to if she would ever decide to come back to her hometown.

Derek decides on taking the call, a nagging feeling in his stomach at the possibility that Cora had gotten herself into some trouble and would need his help. He sighs, but presses the green button.

"Yeah?" he asks, exasperation heavy in his tone. But it isn't Cora.

"Derek?" a rich voice answers.

"Deaton?" Derek asks incredulously. He hadn't seen the man since he had taken Isaac there for a harsh ice bath in attempt to somehow figure out what had happened to his former pack.

"Derek, I need you to come down to the vet." The veterinarian's usually calm and controlled voice is shaky, and holds a hint of anger that shakes Derek more than he would like to admit.

From what he remembered from the small parts of his childhood that aren't plagued with heartbreak, guilt, and self-loathing, Alan Deaton was always so unusually kept together and controlled. If Derek wasn't a werewolf with an advanced sense of smell and a built-in radar for the supernatural, he would've guessed that Deaton was a werewolf; possibly even an Alpha at the air of self-assurance and superiority that constantly surrounded him. But now, with the man's voice being anything but what he is known for, sets Derek on edge and ties his stomach in knots. Derek shakes off the bad feeling as the vet continues on over the phone.

"Derek," he starts again, his voice stronger but still not the same.

"You need to get down here. **Now**."

_Mean Mister Mustard sleeps in the park_

_Shaves in the dark trying to save paper_

_Sleeps in a hole in the road_

_Saving up to buy some clothes_

_Keeps a ten-bob note up his nose_

_Such a mean old man_

_Such a mean old man_

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**AN: **The title comes from my favorite Beatles' album, "Abbey Road". Each chapter title is a song from it, and I own nothing of it. I also own nothing of Jeff Davis' show, and I make no profit from anything I write. Though you guys could pay me in your wonderful reviews, if you would be so kind.


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